


Leave You Behind

by waylandiish



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BUT I SWEAR IT HAS A, F/M, Hurt, Romance, Smut, Tragedy/Comedy, but still angst, honestly this is probably ooc because they're all lowkey serious, idk if i'm gonna write the sex scenes but, is that a spoiler, like kinda comedy, whatever just read the fucking story, you never know so i'll tag it anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-04 02:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17296235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waylandiish/pseuds/waylandiish
Summary: Jake left the Nine-Nine, left New York City, and he left his family behind in an impulsive decision that ruined his entire life. Three years later, he is forced to face the debris of his mistakes and make up for them.





	1. If I Go, I'm Goin

I hated the taste of cigarettes. 

 

It didn't stop me from smoking about two packs in the last twenty-four hours. Smoking had never been my thing; I had avoided it during the rebellious adolescent years, the broke-and-living-in-New-York twenties, and when I made it all the way into my early-thirties without even the curiosity to smoke, I figured It would be a craving I'd never have. 

 

I guess it only took one day to change over thirty years of abstinence. 

 

I flicked ash into the street, eyeing the general hospital in front of me, the stature of the building looming over me like the rest of New York City. I think that's why I left--tall buildings and the constant smell of piss and not at all the emotional and romantic trauma that tainted the view of Brooklyn forever. I pulled the cigarette from my mouth, feeling the smoke fill in my throat, nicotine finally causing my head to become lighter. I look down at the thin, nearly dead, cigarette as I exhaled a thick plume of white smoke from the side of my mouth, a thought echoing in the depth of my mind: I wasn't the one to smoke cigarettes. 

 

_I_ wasn't the one to smoke cigarettes. 

 

I flicked what was left of it into the road and beneath the tire of a taxi before moving into the hospital, shaking the lapel of my leather jacket to dilute the smell of smoke that clung to my entire body. Three years ago, I had effectively said _deuces_  to the city of New York and transferred to a precinct in New Jersey. As much as I had begun to dislike the sight of New York, I don't think I could have moved much farther away from my mom.

 

And even though it was New Jersey, objectively the second worst location on Earth, first being France, it was the lesser of two evils because living in New York made every day feel like my heart was being stabbed over and over, except I couldn't just die. I would walk around, every day, bleeding out while everyone just ignored it or watched. 

 

But despite everything, I don't think a single thing, or one, could have kept me from coming back. See, Holt was on a case where he chased a man up to a roof of a deli and during a scuffle, was pushed from the top. Fortunately, it was only a one story building (rare for New York) and an awning helped break his fall partially. However, he still severely injured his back, and doctors are afraid he might be paralyzed. 

 

The idea of Captain Raymond Holt, the greatest detective any precinct had ever seen, paralyzed and unable to continue being a detective stole the air from his lungs. Holt being confined to a chair and having to be a desk-detective like Hitchcock and Scully was equally as horrifying. I pressed the adhesive guest tag the hospital security made for me, running my finger across the printed name: **JAKE PERALTA**. 

 

I used to love seeing my name; I even saved a newspaper clipping of an article detailing my arrest at a Taylor Swift concert. I loved seeing it on my uniform; growing up with a pilot as a dad sucked, but he always taught me to be proud of that gold-plated _Peralta_  on the badge. His name meant something, and so did mine. But now? I felt so empty, like I should just change my name to something lame--like Smith or Brown. 

 

I scratched idly at my beard as I stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor, stopping at the Nurse's station to ask where Holt's room was. I moved to room 513, hesitantly moving across the cracked linoleum floors. For the most part, I stared at my shoes, trying to psych myself into seeing a man I had hardly communicated within three years. This was _until_  a force slammed into me, hard platform crushing the toes from inside my sneakers. Gasping in pain, I stumbled back and snapping my eyes up to see a familiar face. 

 

Not just familiar. Familiar was an insult to how well I knew the face staring back at me; I had spent countless mornings, day, and nights memorizing every detail she had: her dark, doe eyes, her olive skin, her perfectly aligned, brushed and flossed white teeth. _Amy_. 

 

"Am-"

 

"Don't," she choked out, her face morphing from shock to hurt in an instant. It made my gut twist into knots. "Just... just don't." She turned, marching down the hall towards an exit. I moved forward, looking at her figure move further and further away. I turned, seeing Holt craning his neck to see through the doorway. 

 

"Jacob?" he called, his usual impassive tone soft with interest. 

 

I looked between my mentor and the receding woman, caught between the two things I wanted to do: see Amy and see Holt. "I'm sorry, Holt," I said quickly, poking my head through the door. "I'll be back, but you technically can't move so you're not going anywhere. See you soon, love you, bye," I sputtered before bolting down the hall, moving through the exit to reveal a staircase. Looking down the rails, I noticed Amy's dark hair as she hurried. 

 

"Amy- Amy, wait!" I shouted as I moved so fast down flight after flight, I was afraid I'd slip and crack the back of my head open on the concrete steps. "Come on, Amy, it's been three years," I begged, and it must have worked, because she stopped, gripping the rail so hard her knuckles visibly became white before she spun around to look at me, a deep fire in her doe eyes. 

 

"Exactly J--" she stopped, clenching her fists together as she closed her eyes tight. She took a steady breath and began again. "Exactly, Peralta."

_Ouch_. 

 

"It's been three _fucking_ years and I haven't heard from you. But more than that, nobody has heard from you: not Terry, not Rosa, not Holt, not even _Charles_. You cut everyone out of your life, you ran away, and you come here and have the audacity to be angry at me for not being able to be within a mile radius of you?" her words stung as they flew at me like bullets, except I think this hurt worse than a spray of bullets. The thing was... she wasn't wrong. _I_  was the one who chose to leave, _I_  was the one who cut everyone off. Amy, even with her insecurities, had never abandoned her dignity; she remained in the Nine-Nine, continued doing her job, and despite how much I knew it hurt her, I knew she hadn't lost who she was. 

 

I could see a binder in her messenger bag. 

 

"Fine. You have every reason, every _right_ , to be mad at me, but I'm not here to make everything complicated. I just want to make sure Captain is okay; I'll be back to Newark tomorrow and you don't have to ever think of me ever again," I mumbled, holding my hands up in defense. 

 

She was quiet, looking at me with an exhausted expression. She closed her eyes and hung her head, hand moving up to rub her eye as her body surrendered to the frustration. "Fine, Jacob. Do what you want. Goodbye," she whispered before hurrying back down the stairs at a speed that should be worthy of an Olympic medal. I was nearly busting my ass in my sneakers, and she's doubling my speed in heels. Was it strange I had forgotten how amazed by Amy Santiago I am?

 

Guess I had forgotten a lot. 

 

* * *

**author's note /** ahahahah anyways so I started watching b99 like a week ago and now i'm on a nonstop trajectory into the fucking sun because i love that show so god damn much. so i'm making some amy/jake angst fic and i'm almost done w the second chapter so i decided to post the first one now because what the hell, right? i'm trying not to make four thousand word chapters because if i do, i'll never finish this and i have a huge habit of writing one chapter and leaving the story to rot. hoping i won't do that to this one. also hoping you guys like it so far. LEAVE ME SOME COMMENTS - d. 

* * *

 


	2. Satellite Call

* * *

_Four Years Ago_

 

"Jake." Her voice was soft, a quiet breath as they stood in the doorway, gazing into a new and unfamiliar room. "Can you beli--" her voice died out as I gripped her arm, keeping her from moving any further past the threshold. She turned, beautiful, _perfect_  brown eyes furrowed curiously. 

 

"I gotta carry you through," I insisted, flashing a toothy grin as she laughed, arching a manicured brow at me pointedly. 

 

"We're not married..."

 

" _Yet._ " We both chimed in unison. I only shrugged my shoulder, taking her other arm and pulling her towards me, resting my forehead against hers. "You're the most organized person I know; don't you think we should practice?" 

 

She gasped, eyes bright with adoration. "You know I love practicing," she whispered before leaping into my arm so fast I damn near dropped her. I recovered, shifting her body in my arm until she rest comfortably against my chest, her arms around my neck. 

 

"I know--when we first started dating, you made us practice how we'd introduce ourselves as a couple and you categorized the occasions," I grunted as I stepped into the townhouse we were now the proud owners of. 

 

"Informal occasions, formal occasions, family events, and casual conversations," she stated proudly, pressing a kiss to my cheek as she slid out of my arms, taking in a deep breath as she looked around the room. 

 

While I loved her place--it was a definite improvement from a one bedroom apartment that had a collection of ambiguous smells, stains, and sounds--I wanted a place where we could grow together. It wasn't too far away from her apartment, which meant it was still close enough to Charles and the precinct that we didn't feel like there was much of a change. 

 

But, at the same time, it was monumental. Closing the door with my boot, I watch her pad across the hardwood floors, moving through the kitchen area and into the open living room, an abundance of light flooding into the space. She stood at the window, looking at the tiny backyard that consisted of a strip of grass, a swinging bench, and a small tool shack. 

 

I quietly moved to stand behind her, curling my arms around her midsection and kissing her shoulder softly. "Do you love it?" I whispered into her shirt, lifting my head to rest my cheek against hers. I felt her drape her arms over mine, and I felt her smile brush against my cheek. 

 

"Jake... I love it. And I love that we can make it ours," she sighed as she took my hand, moving me further into the room. "Imagine: light grey furniture, dark wood side tables, a coffee table, the TV on the wall," she basically sung, and I watched her basically decorate the room with her vision, and I could see she was planning every single detail of it from the sofa to the hand soap. 

 

"Yeah, and I can put my massage chair right here," I added, pulling her to the side of the room, a large grin on my face, despite the fact I knew she'd never allow one of my old, dingy chairs to touch her dream home. 

 

"Jake, I love you so much, but if you bring one of those chairs into this home, I will leave you--and by leave you, I mean I will make you sleep in the shed."

 

"Right, okay, no to the massage chairs," I said immediately, looking down and nodding. She shoved my arm and we both couldn't help but laugh as we leaned into each other. "Anything you want, Ames. I just want you to be happy," I said softly as I cupped her face, stroking my thumbs across her cheekbones. 

 

"Jake... I can't just decorate the whole house myself; then what makes this place any different from the old one?" she groaned, crossing her arms. 

 

"Well, I did suggest some massage chairs..." My thoughts were only met with a steady glare. "Listen, I don't care about all that stuff. Even if you pick everything out, it won't matter to me because this place isn't "Amy's Apartment that Jake Lives In". It's a place where we will grow; it's a place with two extra bedrooms, two floors, and the only thing that I need is you. I'd sleep on the floor as long as I could keep you." I leaned over her crossed arms, kissing her forehead. "And by _keep you,_ I don't mean that you're property, because women are not property and you're independent of my actions and you can leave or stay if you want to, I was just trying to be romantic," I stammered, ears and cheeks burning red. 

 

But she was laughing, and my whole body practically melted at the sound, and she reached up and kissed me like it was the first time, like it was the only thing she ever wanted to do. And when she pulled away, I was breathless and refused to open my eyes, because a part of me still felt like this whole thing was one long dream caused by eating three large pizzas and downing a two-liter of Coke. 

 

But then I heard her moving, and, again, laughing. I opened my eyes to see her running up the stairs. "I think I'm gonna do themed guest bedrooms, but I'd like to keep our room neutral. Although, I'd be open to a few _Die Hard_  posters... Given we get them frames and they only stay in our bedroom," she pondered aimlessly, stopping at the top of the steps to look around before turning to look at where I stood, gazing up at her from the bottom. 

 

"Are you coming?"

 

* * *

 

I looked up the daunting concrete stairwell that led back up to Holt's hospital floor, and all I could think about was moving into the townhouse with Amy. The thought made my head hurt, and I think I was just trying to keep my eyes dry. I slowly moved back up the stairs to the fifth floor, silently resenting how it had taken three flights to convince Amy to stop. _I need to get back into cardio._  I returned back to Holt's room, which was peaceful, lulled by the sound of his heart monitor. 

 

"I must say, I am surprised to see you here, Peralta," Holt said, following me with his eyes as I rounded his bed to stand next to his pillow. "But I am also glad you came."

 

"Really?" My voice raised, nearly cracking. I coughed, covering the desperation in my voice. "I mean... why? You had to know I'd come, sir; when I heard you fell from a building, I thought you might be in a coma, and then my presence would be so inspiring, you'd be awakened from your coma and finally realize your love for me," I smirked, glad to see Holt's lip twitch slightly. 

 

"Hm. I don't think I've heard an absurd thought such as that in a very long time, Peralta." His voice was soft and quiet, and it wasn't something I was used to. Or maybe I had just forgotten what Holt's voice sounded like. It made me feel nauseous just considering it. "Truth is, Jacob, I did not consider you coming."

 

"What?" I let out a breathy laugh, thrown off by his statement. "Captain you're... Captain. I know I haven't been the best to... well, I know I haven't been the best to _anyone_  here, not lately, but I haven't forgotten about you." I looked down at his hand as he gestured toward a remote. I pushed it into his hands, and with a press of a button, the back of his hospital bed rose so he was in an upright position. I moved back, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed, scratching my forehead. "I fucked up, Captain."

 

"Yes. You did," his voice was as strong and bellowing as I remembered it, and I couldn't help the pull at the corner of my lip. I looked up at him, smiling weakly. "I was very disappointed in you leaving the way you did, Peralta." 

 

"Are you still disappointed in me?" My voice was much quieter than I wanted it to be; I didn't want to look guilty in front of Holt. I mean-- _I was_. I was totally, irrevocably, and unarguably guilty, but the last thing I wanted was to be lectured and forced to leave the presence of the one man I dropped everything to come see. As much as I had missed Amy, Charles, or anyone else at the precinct, the one person I had been longing to talk to was Holt.  

 

"I'm not sure if I have enough evidence to be, Jacob," Holt finally replied after a brief moment. "I never asked Amy what happened, for professional reasons, but she also never confided in anyone about it. Admittedly, I even tried communicating with her parents to try and figure it out when my curiosity got the best of me, but it was a dead end. However, I cannot place blame on either of you, because I don't know what happened," his dark eyes bore into me, hands folded in his lap before he shrugged. "I am no longer interested in knowing, but I hope you are not one to blame, Peralta, because in the several years I have spent knowing you, I had never known a detective, nor a _person_ , to care so much for their friends unconditionally." 

 

I sat there, absorbing his words with my arms on my elbows and my hands folded against my cheek. I stared at the bottom of his hospital bed, questioning whether or not I should tell him, or if I should just respect his decision of not wanting to know. Whether or not he wanted to know was a moot point if _I_  couldn't bear to even think about it. It's been a lifetime since then, but when I was alone, and it got too quiet, I could hear our voices echoing in my ears. Amy's cried, my cries, my fist slamming through drywall, and the torrential downpour that beat against the windows. 

 

I guess Mother Nature was trying to be poetic. 

 

Or edgy. 

 

Neither was appreciated. 

 

"I'm only here for a night Captain, and as _thrilling_  as this conversation is, it's not all I want to talk about," I drawled, blinking up at him. He scoffed, rolling his eyes in probable frustration, but I could see his subtle grin in the deep crevices of his face. 

 

"Don't worry, Peralta. You don't have to stay here and talk to me. Besides, Kevin is coming and you might not want to be here. Things get... heated when we play the Times' Sudoku," he said, moving his eyes to stare at the wall in front of him, deep in thought... or fantasy. 

 

I didn't want to know. 

 

"But you will be back to see me," he concluded, turning back to me as I furrowed my brows. "Newark is only an hour away. Find the time, and come back, _son._ " His words left me rocked momentarily, my voice catching in my throat. I opened my mouth to respond, and nothing but a cracked exhale escaped. "Amy usually goes to Shaw's after she visits me. Someone is usually there to make sure she gets home safe," he said casually, reaching for the remote to move his bed back in its recline position. 

 

I stared at him as he laid there, staring at the TV mounted in the upper corner of the room. I could briefly hear the monotonous voice of a news anchor, which held Holt's interest as I sat there pondering his words. Maybe it was selfish but... I don't think I could leave without trying to see her again. With a slight glare up at my previous Captain, I stood with a sigh, scratching the back of my neck. "I'll come back next week, Captain," I said, dismissing myself as I padded from the room, acknowledging the small wave Holt gave in response. 

 

As I moved out of the hospital, my feet began to move faster and faster until I was basically sprinting out the front doors. I didn't know what the fuck I was doing--what's new there?--but I knew I had to talk to her. I had gone cold turkey completely on Amy, and even though I had only seen her furious at me, I wanted to see her again. 

 

Even if all she had for me was punches and slaps and screaming--I'd take it. I'll take all I can get.

 

* * *

**author's note /** WOW I UPDATED ANOTHER CHAPTER LATE AT NIGHT LOL i hope all of you who read this are insomniacs, such as myself. let me know what you think!! also if you don't notice, the chapter names are more or less related to the songs i listen to when i write them. the first's chapters song inspo was "If I Go, I'm Goin" by Gregory Alan Isakov and this one's "Satellite Call" by Sara Bareilles. again, leave me some fucking comments so i know you like it thank you goodnight - d. 

* * *


	3. Boomerang

Despite the impressive sprint out of the hospital, I decided to take my car to Shaw's, using the obnoxious traffic as a medium to think. Admittedly, I spent most of my life without doing much of that: thinking. There was a reason I had so adamantly refused to step back into the city; I hadn't returned for birthday's, Thanksgiving, Christmas, not even a funeral. If I stepped back in, I would have to think about everything and realize none of it had to happen. 

 

I would have to acknowledge that if it wasn't for me, I'd be happy. Amy would be happy.

 

Everyone would be happy.

 

The traffic hadn't been as obnoxious as I expected it to be, and I was pulling into a spot directly outside the door. The fire under my ass had dwindled, and I could feel the bile building in the back of my throat. Amy wasn't the only one I had effectively cut out of my life, and I was dutifully reminded of it as I stared at the bricked bar. 

* * *

 

_Five Years Ago_

I couldn't breathe. 

 

I felt like every ounce of air my lungs could provide was being funneled through a narrow straw, and the more I heaved for it, the less it wanted to give. 

 

"Jake, we've only run a few blocks."

 

Charles came up beside me, jogging in place as I pressed a hand against a brick building, my head craned down as I tried to desperately catch my breath. Being in a relationship had made me lazy; I caught myself waking up and dipping an Oreo in a jar of peanut butter for breakfast while my girlfriend was doing her morning routine two mile run. 

 

I know Amy didn't care about what I did with my body, but I think I did. I didn't want to be that guy who watches his girlfriend work out and track her diet because a male-dominated society convinced her that's what she needed to do in order to get a boyfriend, not only instilling a constant insecurity in women, but causing them to think being with a man, getting married, having kids, and doing nothing else is all they should strive for. 

 

I wouldn't stand to let the patriarchy ruin my relationship. 

 

"Amy has been trying to get me to drink water..." Heave. "But I've been sneaking bottles of orange soda during my breaks and when she goes to sleep." Heave. "That doesn't affect my breathing, does it?"

 

"Jake, you know I love you. And for what it's worth, you are the epitome of the perfect male body--"

 

"Getting weird, Charles."

 

"--But, you do need to be taking care of your body better. For example, I'm trying to cut back on the red meat I consume, so to cut the craving, I eat a different species of bird every Friday. I'm feeling more awake and I've learned about the delicacy of New York's staple: the pigeon." 

 

I grimaced, gagging aloud as I moved to stand up straight. I knew Charles was trying to make a point, beneath his disgusting culinary preferences. "You're right. Not about the pigeon," I said pointedly, and Charles nodded in acquiescence, "but I know I need to take care of myself. I promise I'm-- Is this Shaw's?" I blinked, looking up to see the neon sign swinging softly above me, moving my attention from Charles to the sign repeatedly.

 

"No- No! Jake, no; beer is ten times worse for you than orange soda. What you need is..." His voice and my head both went quiet as a man jogged by, shirt nonexistent, clad in nothing but pectorals and abdominal muscles. Charles and I were both quiet until he turned to me, his in-place-jogging finally coming to a stop. 

 

"Let's get a beer."

 

 

* * *

 

I ran my fingers over the exposed brick of the bar, standing in the glow of its neon beacon, my bitten nails moving over the lines of concrete that held the building together. The pulsing of rock music moved through the bricks and against my palm, as familiar to me as the pizza parlor across the street. I gulped down the nostalgia, taking in a deep breath as I moved towards the door, feeling as I was moving mountains as I pulled it open and stepped inside with a hesitant pace. My eyes moved around the room, eyeing the jukebox, the bar, the tables, the booths, the decorations of local sports teams, universities, and pictures from decades past. 

 

"Jake?"

 

I snapped my head from a framed Polaroid to see a short and stout man in front of me, clad in various shades of beige. _Charles fucking Boyle_. His hair had finally gotten a few flakes of grey, and I could see he had gotten a small scar on his cheek, but that aside--he was just as I had remembered him. We stood there, both equally as stunned by our presences. Our mouths twitched and shuttered, both of us trying to speak, but neither of us finding the words. 

 

"Hey." The words came tumbling out of my mouth in discordant pitches. I coughed, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "Charles, hey, um. I'm just here to--" And then my voice stopped like my throat had decided it was better to close and cut off the rest of that sentence. And I stared at Charles, wanting to ask a million things: Have you seen Amy? Is Amy here? Is Amy okay?

 

_Amy, Amy, Amy_. 

 

Instead, my body jolted forward, and my arms wrapped around him, embracing him as tight as physically possible without breaking his back. I didn't care about his reciprocation, I didn't care about his anger, his hurt that stemmed from his best friend abandoning him in Brooklyn. I didn't care; I just needed him to know that I didn't forget about him and that all of my actions weren't victim-less crimes. 

 

"I was hoping I'd see you here," I whispered, and, slowly, I felt his arms raise until they clapped my back in an equally gripping hold. Being in the bar, with the same old smell of pine, New Yorkers, and cigarettes, hearing its distinct chaos from drunkards, families, and sports fans alike... It was like my body absorbed three years of joy that it had lost. 

 

"There's a lot left to say, man, and I know I'll spend a very long time making it up to you... But I promise I _will_  make it up to you," I said, a strength returning to my voice that I hadn't felt, nor heard, in such a long time. I pulled away, gripping Charles's shoulders. I don't think I was exactly shocked to see his face covered in tears. 

 

"You're right. You do need to make it up to me; there's a Malaysian seafood festival in two weeks. We can share an eel!" he said, wiping his tears as he flashed me a trademark Boyle grin, filled with more dimples than physically possible. While the idea of eating eel was revolting, the idea of being able to have a whole day between Charles and I was exciting. 

 

"You got it, man," I complied, rolling my eyes slightly when they caught another pair of brown eyes. 

 

Deep, dark, and framed with long, full lashes. 

 

_Amy_. 

 

In my peripherals, I could notice Charles shifting, and then I felt his hand on my back. "Maybe, in the spirit of making it up to people, you can make it up to her," I heard him mumble, and I snapped my head to look at him, trying to think of what to say. "I know you came here to see her, Jake. And you should... You know, _see her_." And he squeezed my shoulder before he moved to sit at a table in the back of the room. 

 

I turned back towards Amy, who hadn't moved but had since moved her attention to the glass of whiskey in front of her. Taking in a shaky breath, I moved to the stool beside her. 

 

"Is this seat taken?" My voice was quiet, and I was just hoping she wouldn't go running away from me. Fortunately, she didn't run, and only glanced at the seat and shook her head silently. I slid onto the stool, glancing over at the still, amber liquid in her glass. 

 

"And how many of those have you had?" I pondered. She was still and quiet for a moment before she gripped the glass and drained it contents, and as the liquor slid down her throat, I could smell the subtle notes of bourbon. 

 

_Strong_. 

 

"Four," she finally replied, voice husky from the alcohol. My lip twitched slightly; _so far, so good,_  I thought to myself as I lifted my hand, waving over the bartender. 

 

"That's about three over your limit, huh?" I jested, taking a shot at a light banter. Perhaps the alcohol would work to my favor. The bartender set a beer in front of me, and Amy spun on her stool, facing me with her elbow propped on the bartop. 

 

"My tolerance is a lot higher now, Peralta," she said coolly as the barkeep refilled her glass. I cleared my throat, briefly looking down, intimidated by her hold before I lifted my beer to her. 

 

"Right," I conceded, and I watch her hand waver before she lifted her glass back to me. We both tipped our drinks back. "So, how is--"

 

"No." Her voice cut through mine like a steel knife. "If we're gonna sit here and be civil, we're not going to talk. You don't get to ask me how I'm doing or what I'm doing or anything about my parents. We're going to drink together, and then I'm gonna go home and sleep, and you're going back to Jersey."

 

"Well, actually, I got a hotel so I am also going to sleep before going to Jersey," I quipped, admittedly cheeky, but Amy didn't buy it. She just gave me a glare and I felt my body deflate in response. "Fine," I muttered, raising my hand for the bartender again. 

 

I was going to need something stronger to survive this night. 

 

But that's what we did. We sat beside each other, our eyes moving from the shelves of alcohol in front of us, to the television mounted in the corner of the room, to each other, and back to the shelves again. I noticed her head snap, and I turned to see her staring at the television. It was a news story about Captain Holt. 

 

They were describing the pursuit of the criminal and the scuffle that led to Holt being in the hospital, currently trying to find a treatment that wouldn't leave him paralyzed. It was hard to listen to, but it was even harder to watch as they begun flashing images of Holt during his time in the NYPD. The first few were old ones, ones I would make a mental note to find later, and then there were pictures of him in the 99th, next to Terry, Rosa, Charles, Amy, and myself. And it wasn't just one photo, it was one after another after another. 

 

The more I watched, the more I felt like there was a stone in my stomach, causing it to sink. Before I could turn away, Amy was slamming a few bills on the bar and storming out. 

 

"Amy- Amy!" I called after her, hurriedly fishing out my wallet and throwing what was either thirty dollars or seventy dollars onto the bar. I didn't care to check as I pushed my wallet back into my jeans, stumbling out the door. I whipped my head up and down the sidewalk, trying to find any sight of her, and then I heard a small cry from the side of the bar. 

 

I quickly moved to see Amy leaning against the building, holding a broken heel in one hand while holding her bare foot off the ground. I slowly moved into the alley, looking towards Amy for some sort of reaction. I opened my mouth to speak but she knew what she wanted to say faster than I did. "I know it wasn't your fault."

 

The statement echoed in the alleyway, and I felt the air thicken between us. "I never thought it was your fault that all of this happened; I know we both fucked up. I know I said things... I know I did things that put you in difficult positions, but _you_  left."

 

It hovered between us: _you_  left. 

 

No matter who caused it all to explode, no matter who initiated it, who fed the fire, who kept it going: I was the one who left. I packed all of my things, shoved them into every available nook, cranny, and crevice my sedan had, and I left. 

 

"I thought you'd come back. Jake, we had small arguments over stupid things, like whether we should watch something new and current, or watch another Die Hard movie," she breathed, laughing softly to herself as she looked up at the tops of the buildings. "But this? I didn't even know what to think when I came home and you were... gone. Every part of you was gone. And I talked to Charles, and he hadn't heard from you, and Holt hadn't seen you, and they all just said you'd come home eventually." 

 

Sarge used to tell me that the one thing I hadn't learned how to do was grow up; I was a great detective, a great friend, and a great guy, but I needed to mature. The man I was three years ago was a polar opposite to who I am now, and I wish I could go back in time and correct everything I did wrong because I was too childish to see what I needed to do. Amy and I had a fight, and I ran away, like a bull-headed kid. And despite how badly I wanted to come back the second I left, I craved gratification; I wanted Amy to come running to _me_. 

 

"I believed them," she continued, her voice much more leveled now. "I believed them for a long time. And then... I stopped because if I kept waiting for you, I was going to die. I was going to die starring at a door, and I had too many responsibilities just to become a ghost at the end of it all," she whispered. 

 

"I don't know how I did it," I blurted out, tongue tripping over my teeth. She turned to me, a furrow to her brow but a small curl to the corner of her mouth. "Amy... You are the best thing that has ever happened to me," I sighed, moving closer to where she stood. I reached forward, pausing to look up at her for approval, and when she nodded silently, I took her hands and pulled her forwards so she was standing. Her left foot, shoeless, rested on top of my polished shoe like we were going to dance. 

 

"You're still just a little clumsy," I drawled, my voice husky and warm.

 

I could hear the music from the bar behind her, I could hear the discord of moving cars, squeaky breaks, and impatient honking from the street, and I could hear my heart beating in my ears as I bore my eyes into Amy's. I could feel her nails digging into my leather jacket, and our bourbon-scented breath mingled together, I watch her dark gaze drop ever so slightly to my lips. 

 

_Yippie-kay-yay_. 

 

I ducked my head down, capturing her lips in mine, and when I felt her hands fist in my hair, a symphony of colors exploded behind my lids. My arms snaked around her body, bringing her as close as possible while I used the brick behind her as leverage for us both. Her tongue scored my mouth, and it was like a drug sent straight into my bloodstream; I had missed this. 

 

I missed her. 

 

She pulled my mouth from hers, and I rested my forehead against hers, panting hoarsely. "You want me to take you home?" I breathed, not allowing my eyes to open. 

 

"I'd rather see your hotel room." 

* * *

**author's note**   **/** wow i'm on a roll. who knows, guys/gals/nonbinary pals, i might actually finish this thing. i'm hoping i do but classes start tomorrow so if i slow down, please don't give up hope. i hope you enjoy this! it should start picking up and i really can't wait for y'all to see my surprise next chapter ahahah have a good week! -d.


	4. New York

Suddenly, I was aware that one of my eyes were open. 

 

I was cold, I quickly realized, and I sat up, realizing I was not on the rather nice hotel bed to my left, but I was on the ground... naked. Suddenly, I felt a pillow drop onto my lap, causing my body to flex in shock. I lifted my head to see Amy, slipping her pencil skirt back up her legs, tucking her blouse into its hem, and pulling up the zipper in the back. 

 

She wasn't looking at me, and it was painfully obvious as she moved around the bed to pick up one of her heels where it lay near my leg. I wanted to speak, to move, to do just about anything, but it was evident how drunk I still was. My head was heavy, I was light-headed, and the only thing I wanted to do was close my eyes again. 

 

Coughing, I managed to lift my arm, gripping the top of the mattress and pulling myself onto the bed as I covered my lower half with thin white sheets. 

 

Cold white sheets. 

 

"Where-" I cleared my throat, wincing at how dry it was, "Where are you going?" I mumbled quietly, my closing once more. I listened to her move around the room, and I could feel her picking up pillows, empty water bottles, and blankets. She was cleaning. I couldn't help but smile. 

 

I used all of my energy to swing my body back up, my head rocking back and forth as I slowly opened my eyes, seeing the silhouette of her figure near the door. "You're leaving," I moaned, slurring my words in a mix of intoxication and exhaustion. Every part of my body ached and pulsed, and a part of me was surprised she could move as well as she was. 

 

"I told you, Jake. I have responsibilities," she replied, and her voice had lost it's softness from just a few hours prior, and it was back to its somber stature. "You should go back to Newark," she added under her breath, but I could hear it as if she screamed it into my ear. But I couldn't respond; my body was falling back down onto the mattress, and I didn't have the energy to argue with her, let alone chase after her. 

 

I fell asleep to the sound of the door slamming. 

 

* * *

 

Fuck. 

 

I was painfully aware, literally, of the light flooding my hotel room, causing my head to throb as I gripped my hair, wanting nothing more than to feel the satisfaction of pulling it out of my scalp. Turning away from the windows, I groaned, feeling the full extent of the physical side effects of last night. My legs were simultaneously numb and bruised, my tongue was damn near choking me, my brain had been replaced with a sledge-hammer, and my back was destroyed from sleeping on the ground for half of the night. 

 

I laid there, feeling the rays of sunlight heating the room as seconds drug on. Little by little, my body began to stir, my leg slowly slipping off the side of the bed as I pushed myself up. I rolled my head across my shoulders, a series of snap, crackle, and pops erupting from my neck. I lifted a hand to my face, scratching my beard and wincing at the smell of whiskey the perfumed from it. 

 

"That's the last time I drink whiskey," I grunted to myself as I stood, letting the sheet fall from my waist as I padded into the bathroom, flicking on the dim light and closing the door behind me. I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and while I looked like a fucking mess, I had never felt so alive. My hair was damn near sticking straight up, my mouth was still swollen, and, as I turned my head, I noticed a bruise at the base of my throat. I reached up, letting my fingers trace the misshapen mark, and noticed lanes of dark red marks running down my sides. 

 

I trembled, reaching for memories of the previous night, clouded by the amount of whiskey I had consumed not only at the bar, but when we came back to the room. I turned, moving to start the shower when I noticed a necklace discarded on the edge of the vanity, a large garnet pendant gleaming up at me. I smirked, lifting it by the dainty silver chain, letting the gem swing softly in front of my gaze. 

 

An opportunity. 

 

I moved back to the shower, not bothering to wait until the water warmed up before throwing myself underneath the cold spray. I scrubbed my body as hard as I could with the hotel soap and a washcloth until the scent of alcohol dissipated, at the risk of possibly scrubbing the skin of my body. I used the entire mini bottle of shampoo, pouring it directly on my wet hair, scrubbing my hair, mumbling a Queen song underneath my breath. 

 

"Pressure, pressing down on me, pressing down on you," I hummed, scratching the Marriott's finest sandalwood and vanilla through every follicle of hair on my head I could find--and, yes, that included my beard. I ran my head under the water, which had finally begun to warm, watching the foam fall through the drain as a grin stretched across my face. 

 

I was happy. 

 

* * *

 

"You had sex with Santiago."

 

I had barely taken two steps into Holt's room when his thundering voice filled the room, leaving both myself and a passing-by nurse stunned. I glanced over, staring back at the nurse until she quickly continued on her way, reaching behind me to shut the door. 

 

"And there goes the only reason I came here to see you," I replied, smirking across the room at him as he rolled his eyes. As I pulled the same oriental chair back up to his bedside, he raised the back of his hospital bed so he was sitting up. "How did you know?" I muttered, somewhere between bummed I was still an open book to Raymond Holt, and happy that some things hadn't changed in my absence. 

 

"Have you forgotten that you cannot get anything past me, Peralta?" Holt demanded, crossing his arms across his chest. I stared back at him, furrowing my brows skeptically before he gestured towards me with his hand. "You have a rather obvious hickey, Jacob," he added and I quickly looked down to see the collar of my shirt hanging a bit too low. Clearing my throat, I pulled my shirt up, hoping to cover it in case anyone else decided to drop by. 

 

"Just don't tell anyone yet; I'm not sure what it means, and I'm not trying to chase her off," I mumbled, chewing on my thumbnail anxiously, interrupted by the back of Holt's large hand smacking me in the forehead. I blinked, momentarily dazed by the act, before lifting my head back to him. "What was that for?" 

 

"If you want to keep your nails cleaned and neat, try cutting them, but do not put your fingers in your mouth. Secondly, the Jake I knew would be going around to everyone in New York City, announcing the events of last night. In thorough details," he replied in a steady tone, glancing up at the ceiling thoughtfully before he finally dropped his gaze back to me. "Do you want to... talk about--"

 

"No," I said quickly, clenching my eyes shut in disgust, "absolutely not. I don't want to describe my sexual experiences with my Captain," I scoffed. 

 

"Previous Captain."

 

I winced. As much as I had missed the banter between Holt and I, his constant brutal honesty was sometimes a bit more than I could stand. I leaned back in the chair, my body deflating into a slumped position as I stared at the wall in front of me. 

 

"Santiago was here earlier," Holt said, transitioning the conversation, and successfully piquing my interest. I lifted my head towards him, brows furrowing curiously. 

 

"She was? Why?" I demanded. I'm sure Amy didn't need much of a reason to see Holt; I'm sure she'd come to see him if she got a new laminator. Holt sat with his mouth open, once more looking at the ceiling before he finally let words spill from his lips. 

 

"I don't think I could tell you why she was upset, Jacob," Holt mused. "She's a brilliant detective; what she lacks in social skills, she more than makes up for in intuition. She could tell you how a whole room is feeling, but I don't think she can quite say the same for herself. It was mindless ranting for about fifteen minutes, and then she left."  He paused and then shook his head. "I will never understand heterosexuals."

 

I laughed. And it was a good laugh; a laugh that sent my head flying back, and my hand gripping my stomach to keep it from ripping open, the force of my laughter shaking my whole body. My body shook as it began to calm, wiping a few tears from my eyes with the heel of my palm. "It'll be fine, Captain. I'm going to figure it out, and it'll be fine," I promised, standing with such rigor, the chair behind me tipped over. Glancing from the fallen chair to me, Holt raised his brows. 

 

"Are you, Peralta? Going to figure it out?" He pondered, crossing his arms in his traditional stance. "Does that mean you are... trying to mend things?" he prodded, and I hesitated to answer. I knew subconsciously that coming home would more or less end like this: with me wanting to fix everything. When I left, I went through stages of guilt and remorse, and I mourned the death of all of these relationships I had given up. The Nine-Nine made me who I am today, and coming back to realize I could potentially fix it... I was forced to realize many of the mistakes I had made in the last three years. 

 

"I owe it to you all to at least try," I replied, nodding down to my Captain.

 

Not my former Captain--just my Captain. No matter what happened, Holt would never lose my loyalty, and I'd happily go wherever he needed me. I smiled fondly, and I was glad that he found it in himself to remember the muscle in his face to smile back at me, holding his hand to me. I shook it firmly, just the way he liked it: firm grip, up, down, center, and depart. 

 

"I'll see you soon, Captain," I concluded, pulling the chair back up and pushing it back against the wall in its original position before I sauntered out of the hospital room with enough confidence to make Bruce Willis proud. 

 

* * *

 

When I stepped back into the city, the only thing I could think of was how foul its scent was and how grey it all looked, despite the blinding lights that glared from towering skyscrapers. It was easy to not miss it then when it was so easy to forget all of the reasons that made me stay in Brooklyn. New York wasn't the greatest city in the world, not even close, despite all of the awesome movies that had been produced in or based on it. The people were rude, the property available was expensive and cramped, the streets smelled like waste, and the traffic was twenty-four seven. 

 

See, it was easy to be intimidated by New York or amazed by it, when some professional photographer takes a picture from fifty floors high, or when a celebrity poses in their million-dollar-apartment. But the things nobody knew about was what I loved about New York, like Sal's pizza, which achieves optimal taste at display temperature, or the guy who would open his apartment window--directly across from my old place--and play his saxophone into the night. He'd play one song, and, like clockwork, I'd watch as he cleaned the bronze instrument, and tenderly place it back into his case. A man with one leg from Nicaragua makes canvases from tossed newspapers and cardboard to create beautiful, intricate, and semi-erotic pencil sketches. 

 

The beauty of New York was its people, and one, in particular, was the finest attraction the city had to offer. 

 

It was easy to feel small in proximity to buildings that gave the term skyscraper literal meaning, but I never foresaw it being a powder blue townhouse with a red painted door. Besides the dying fern, I had attempted to take care of when we first moved in, the home appeared the same. The paint still seemed fresh and well-maintenanced, and the second step on the porch was just slightly smaller than the rest.

 

It was nice to be home.

 

I sucked a breath through my teeth before raising my fist and knocking softly beneath the framed peep-hole. As I did, my stomach sank, and nerves crawled over my body like a thousand fire ants as my stomach fell through my ass. I felt like I was staring at that red paint for an eternity, a part of me hopeful it wasn't going to open, but as soon as I went to take a step back, it parted with rushed intent. 

 

Amy's face filtered through several expressions, each one distinct from the last: relief, confusion, frustration, anger, perhaps longing? Maybe that was just wishful thinking. Her mouth hung open, and I prepared myself for a number of greetings, each as distinctly different as her expressions, but all that slipped out was a ragged breath. She looked... tired? Her hair was braided, and while the braid was well-kept and neat, it was a familiar sign of stress that I knew all too well. 

 

"Hey, Ames, I know you wanted me to go back, it's just I found--" I paused, slipping my hand into the pocket of my jeans, fishing for the necklace past the whopping sixty-three cents that also took residence in said pocket. I began to pull it out when a figure came darting from beneath her arm, standing in front of her legs with a large gaping grin as he wobbled on his small legs. His hair was thick, dark, and straight and his eyes were a deep brown. 

 

"Hey little man," I greeted, smiling down at him. Amy had seven older brothers, and this child looked like at least five of them, with those signature chocolate eyes. He giggled, raising his hand and slowly spreading his fingers in some toddler-esque wave, the other hand groping at Amy's pant leg. "What's your name?" I asked, slowly crouching down to meet his eye-level. 

 

"Mateo," he said in a quiet, sheepish voice, still beaming at me. I glanced up at Amy, still grinning, but she was doing anything but. She looked prepared to pass out, all the color drained from her face, and her lips almost looked purple. Furrowing my brows, I slowly raised back up, reaching out to gently touch her arm. 

 

"Are you okay?" My voice was soft; I didn't want to step over any of her boundaries, but I also was worried she was about to fall backward and hit her head. She nodded, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "Hey, kid, where's your mom? You think you can get some help?" I asked, glancing down between us to see the boy regard me with round, doe eyes and then turn to fully wrap his arms around Amy's legs. 

 

"Mom," he squeaked, nestling his cheek against her thigh. 

 

Time began to move in slow motion, and I lifted my gaze to Amy's, brows pressed together as I waited for a _reasonable_  explanation, such as "he only know two words: his name and Mom" or he adorably calls every female Mom. Perhaps a cultural thing, since they were all calling each other _mami_ , right? And the more I waited, the more I fell into a deep, cold pit of realization, like standing in the middle of a train track and seeing a large, blinding light speeding towards you. I stepped back, trying to catch myself as the blood drained from my head, groping out to catch the railing of the porch. 

 

"Mateo is my son, Jake."

* * *

**author's note**   **/** in celebration of season six premiering in thirty minutes, i am posting this. i didn't think i was going to finish it (a friend of mine has been telling me to take my time in writing), but i honestly love this story and there are still so many elements to show. i think it's going to be a long-term story, so i hope you all have enjoyed it thus far because i have a LOT planned. anyways, happy B99 day! - d. 


	5. Dark Side of the Moon

_Four Years Ago,_

_Five Months before the Fight_

"So, I've been reading."

 

That had her attention. I was currently sprawled across Amy, my head resting on her stomach as she finished of the crossword I had so rudely interrupted--apparently, sex was rude now. I was exhausted; I handled the lack of sleep requirement of being a detective fairly well, but it had been kicking me in the ass lately, along with the several perps who had literally been kicking me in the ass lately. I swear, I almost expect the witnesses to beat the shit out of me before giving their account. 

 

I heard her close the newspaper, setting it on the nightstand before she began combed her fingers through my hair, sending trembles down my spine. "Interesting," she drawled, hiding a laugh behind her lips. I lifted my head, glaring up at her before I dropped my cheek back to her stomach, shrugging. 

 

"I guess the shock isn't completely unwarranted," I muttered, and I felt her body shake with quiet laughter, and even I could help but grin, lazily kissing a freckle on her ribs. "It was about reincarnation, and how we will always have a different body, but our souls have lived since the beginning of time," I explained, shifting to lift myself onto my elbows, satisfied to see she seemed interested in this discussion. I mean, for fuck's sake, I had read for this shit. 

 

"I was John McClane in a past life, just by the way."

 

"He's a fictional character, Jake."

 

"Don't interrupt me, Ames, I'm trying to explain something," I retorted, earning an exasperated snort from her, followed by a roll of the eyes and a pointed crinkle of the nose towards me. I love her. "But we were all created when the whole world blew up and made the galaxy, which means some of us share the same origin as stars, and microwaves, and horses, and Boyle," I said pointed and she grimaced at the prospect of sharing the same DNA as Boyle. 

 

I think we can all imagine that small, beige star he was shit out of.

 

"And what did you learn from all of this, Jake? Except that we could be cosmically related," she countered, a dimpled grin spread across her face as she slid her body down the mattress, effectively positioning her body beneath mine, our eyes perfectly leveled.  I was quiet for that moment, my gaze attached to hers, and I swear I could see the whole world reflecting back at me. 

 

"I learned you were made from the same nerd star that created Einstein and Stephen Hawking and John McTiernan, director of Die Hard," I sighed, and she giggled softly, lifting her head to kiss the corner of my mouth tenderly. "Like all of them, you were always meant to be something great, and epic, and I'm just really happy someone as cool as you is with someone as lame as me," I whispered, pressing my forehead against hers. 

 

Being with Amy didn't make me a better person--I was already a good person, but she gave my life substance, which it severely lacked. Before her, I was lazy, arrogant, and dysfunctional, and now I actually did laundry every week. More than that, I experienced this ravenous love that burned wildly through my entire being. I thought it would wane the longer we were together, but three years later and I still felt like a kid passing notes to their crush in middle school every time I was around her. 

 

Her arms moved, curling around my neck and I slowly allowed the weight of my body to rest on hers as she pulled me close. "Anything else?" she whispered huskily, and I felt my eyes dilate instantly, a low groan rumbling in my throat as I ran my teeth over my lower lip. 

 

"The people we have in our lives have always been around us in some combination. For example, Holt could have been your dad in a past life. Or your husband," I mumbled, eyes focused on her lips until a small moan escaped her lips. "Are you into that?"

 

"A little bit."

 

"I'm ignoring that," I countered, rolling my eyes and she laughed against my neck, her legs tangling with mine as she tipped her head back to grin up at me. "I'm sure you were a lot of amazing things in all your lives, Amy, but I know one thing for certain." I leaned down, running my nose along the length of hers, feeling the mattress compress as her body sank, her eyes fluttering closed and her mouth pursing in the slightest expectancy of a kiss. "I have always loved you, Amy Santiago, in this life, the millions before it, and the millions after it. And I can't wait to marry you," I whispered, my lips so close to hers I felt her breath catch in her throat as her eyes sprang open. 

 

She stared up at me with a mix of adoration and seduction, her hooded eyes both dark with a stormy expression and glassy with emotion. I felt her hand tangle into the hair at the nape of my neck, and she guided my mouth down to hers, where I sunk into the kiss like warm chocolate. Her mouth was sweet, and tasted of peppermint and vanilla, and it made my senses sing when her hands moved to grip the hem of my sweats. Her mouth moved from mine, creating a hot, slick path from my jaw to my throat and to my ear while I moaned into the curve of her shoulder. 

 

"Turn off the lamp, Jake," she grunted as she tactfully used her feet to push my sweats down my legs. 

 

"You got it, Sarge."

 

* * *

 

When I was in elementary school, I was playing on the monkey bars, trying to learn how to swing using only one hand, and my hand slipped. I fell straight onto my back, and it knocked the wind out of me so hard that as a 36-year-old man, I could still remember how it felt. _This_  was how it felt; you felt like breathing was impossible like a paralytic had been injected into your bloodstream, and all you could do is lay there with your mouth open, unable to breathe or cry or speak. 

 

You just sat there--absorbing the pain. 

 

I ran a hand over my face, not knowing whether I was sweating or crying, but I felt something wet falling down my face. I looked back down to Mateo, redefining his dark hair, his crooked grin, his dimples. It's not like I had much experience in the development of children, but I knew he was not a newborn, and I knew Amy didn't have the ability to cheat. 

 

I wanted to cry.

 

I wanted to scream, I wanted to be happy, I wanted to run back to Newark. I was frozen on those concrete steps, staring up at Amy in pure and horrific pain, eyes wide and glassy, and my jaw clenched to keep any amount of noise from coming out of my mouth. Sniffling, I wiped my face with the back of my hand, forcing out a shaky and unconvincing laugh. 

 

"Alright, well, I gotta go now. Mateo, it was so nice to, um..." My voice faded as I knelt down towards him again, trying not to draw attention to my unhinged state. I reached my hand out to him, trying not to overwhelm him, and I was relieved when he placed his tiny hand in mine. And for a moment, that's all I could see: his small hand placed in my larger one, the softness of his skin not yet lost, and I squeeze it as soft as possible before quickly getting to my feet. 

 

I lifted my eyes to Amy, and I could see the conflict staring back at me, and she didn't know whether to explain herself or do nothing. But I didn't care which she would settle upon, because I instant turned and trotted down the steps, moving briskly back towards my car, becoming completely numb to the world around me as I pulled away from the townhouse and drove until New York City was in my rear view. 

 

Why had I even gone back in the first place?

 

* * *

 

I drug my feet into my precinct--good ol' Oh-One at Newark where the crime was dominated by bar fights and fender benders--gripping the arm of a stumbling, drunken middle-aged man. He kept mumbling about his cuffs, but he could barely hold his head up to speak clearly, and the one time I had made an effort to listen, he vomited all down the front of my shirt. 

 

"Jesus Christ, Peralta? Is that _stench_  you?" Detective Pike glanced up from his computer, scrunching his nose at me as I turned to place the man in the holding cell, removing his cuffs. I ignored Pike, peeling my jacket off carefully to not smear it in the bile before I pulled my button up over my head and promptly dropped it in my trash bin. Pulling open my top drawer, I plucked a white undershirt and slipped it on, grateful I had implemented the _safety shirt_  for pizza grease related incidents. 

 

"I want him to stay in holding; he's too intoxicated to question." The man had been involved in a string of car thefts, and his drunken state made him loud and obvious, but it was hard to write a report when the man was barely awake. I sat at my desk to fill out as much as the arrest report as I could without the perp and then I headed home, ignoring the several farewells that followed me to the door. 

 

It had been a week since I returned from New York and I still felt numb; I felt like the time I existed in had detached itself from the world around me, and I was moving in constant slow motion while the world sped on without me. A week had felt like a month, and yet the emotional exhaustion from the trip had left me in a dissociated state that felt as raw today than it did on the drive back to Jersey. I felt robotic as I parked in the garage attached to my apartment, I felt my heels scrape the ground as I approached my apartment, and I felt my body sink wearily as I stepped into the room. 

 

It was definitely a step up from my grandmother's old pad in Brooklyn; it had an open floor plan and a large sliding glass door that led out to a balcony, giving the space a lot of natural light. After binge-watching almost every show on HGTV with Amy, these were things I cared about now. Although, the light gave the room a larger presence, which was hardly filled with my grey sofa, a black recliner, and a standard television sat atop a small wooden stand. The room looked barren, and the only thing in the kitchen was a two six packs in the fridge, a half gallon of milk, CT Crunch, and a collection of microwaveable dinners in the freezer. 

 

I guess it was better than drowning in empty pizza boxes and two-liter soda bottles. 

 

I threw my keys, wallet, and badge onto the counter and padded down the hall towards the sole bedroom in the apartment. First, it was the holster that I slid off my shoulders, taking the gun from its sheath and setting it on my nightstand. My back ached as I leaned over and untied my boots, toeing them off until the tumbled across the wooden floor. Reaching over, I gripped the loose end of each of my socks, stretching them out until they snapped off my heels, using my sub-par basketball skills to throw them into the hamper in the corner of the room.  I stood, pushing my jeans down my legs until they fell to my ankles and I was able to step out of them. I pulled my shirt off, taking them collectively to the hamper before I was pulling on a pair of basketball shorts on the way to the bathroom. 

 

I finally knew how Holt felt like. 

 

I was trapped in a monotonous routine, caught in a loop that consisting of waking up, going to work, coming home, changing, eating, showering, and going to bed. The only variety I knew was laundry on Wednesdays, and I felt like it was killing me. Another thing I missed about New York was the satisfaction I had felt with every day--I didn't need to be rich or famous to be irrevocably happy with each and every day I had, no matter what happened. In Newark, I felt unchallenged, useless, and _bored._

I stepped into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, just wanting to remind myself that I existed, and this wasn't a simulation. _How disappointing._  I hadn't stopped being scrawny; my pale body hadn't developed a toned, muscular build. Maybe my shoulders had gotten somewhat bigger since there hadn't been a better distraction than going to the gym and working out my frustrations for the past three years. I prodded my stomach with a general dissatisfaction, scoffing as I raised my head back to my reflection. 

 

I learned how to grow a beard, at the very least, and had trained it to grow in with a regiment of constant trimming, upkeep, and vitamins to help my hair growth. _I had become Amy_. When I left, I had tried to convince myself I could fall into the old habits I had discarded when I moved in with Amy, such as eating pizza for breakfast _and_  dinner, or walking around in my boxers, or using 3-in-1 shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Instead, I created schedules, set up an automatic payment for my bills, used a calendar; I did everything in my power to feel like Amy was still a part in my life _except_  go back to be with her. 

 

To raise our child together.

 

The thought of it still made my stomach churn, and I instantly felt nauseous. I couldn't get the image of Mateo out of my head: his deep mahogany eyes, his soft hands, his dimples. I grew up with a dad that was never there, and I swore that I would have a child, and I would pay for my father's mistakes by making sure my son _never_  questioned their father's love. And instead? I was no better than my absentee father; I wasn't bringing women over and fucking them in the same home as my wife and children, but I was completely devoid of his life for three years. 

 

And Amy hadn't let me get the chance. 

 

I had felt waves of anger that I was not familiar with experiencing. I was angry at everyone--everyone who watched me leave, who watched me forget about New York, who watched me come back for Holt. Everyone had betrayed me, and for the last week, my phone had been ringing nonstop from Holt, Terry, Charles, even Amy had called me a few times. I slipped my hand into my pocket, retrieving my phone, and proceeding to play a voicemail out loud. 

 

_Jake, I know this is shocking, but please call me back. I just... I want to talk about this. There's a lot I have to say, and I know there's a lot you should know. Please just... Just call me back._  

 

God, she drove me fucking _nuts_. We were caught in this vicious circle where it was either me trying to catch her tail, or her trying to catch mine. Her voice was so soft, and I vividly remember when she used to use it to whisper how she loved me into my ear, or tell me a stupid joke that would leave us both in stitches. I missed her so much, and I felt like I had relapsed, and now I was left craving that high I had forgotten about, and it left my body wrecked. 

 

I lugged my way through the apartment, stopping by the fridge to grab a beer, cracking it open as I moved to sit in my recliner, drink until I felt lightheaded, and go to sleep. However, a knock at my door made me stop in my tracks. Slurping the foam from the top of the can, I moved to open the door, shocked by a leather-clad figure standing with her arms across her chest. 

 

" _Rosa?_ " 

 

"Yeah, it's me, idiot," she grunted, marching past me to make a beeline for the kitchen, wavering her hand on the fridge as she looked around, dark brows furrowed. "It's clean in here. And it doesn't smell like month old pizza," she stated, looking towards me as I stood, frozen in place. _Was I drugged?_  Blinking away my shock, I pushed the door shut and locked it.

 

"Nice observation," I muttered, taking a well-needed drink of my beer, which Rosa had also helped herself to as she cracked open the top, taking a large gulp. "What, um... Not that I'm not _ecstatic_  to see you, but why are you here?" Rosa had been the one person who hadn't tried reaching out to me in the three years I was gone, and I didn't expect her to. She had every reason to forget me the same way I had abandon her, and I didn't hold it against her. 

 

"Well, I'm going to drink this beer, and then I'm going to beat you until you start seeing some sense," she drawled, taking another long swig from the can, and I got the point that it wouldn't be long until she fulfilled what she said she was going to do. When it came to kicking ass, Rosa wasn't one to exaggerate. 

 

"Well maybe you can attempt to sip it long enough for me to run away," I quipped, sighing as I moved to collapse into my recliner, staring blankly at my reflection in the television screen. "Look, you can beat me all you want, but-- _OW!_ " I gripped the back of my head, expecting to feel blood pouring onto my hand as I felt a strong, blunt force hit the back of my head. I turned around to see what I would have guessed was a _hammer_ , but was actually Rosa's right hand. 

 

"Shut up," she demanded, moving to sit on the sofa beside my recliner, propping her boots onto the coffee table. "You saw Mateo. And then you left and you've been ignoring Amy's calls. Why?" she inquired and I could only shake my head, turning away from her as anger flushed through my body. I felt my eyes roll in my skull, my jaw clenching to keep from letting it all pour out.

 

"She... I..." I growled, running a hand through the hair before I turned back to Rosa. "Mateo is _my_  fucking son, Rosa, and I didn't know. I get I ran away, and I was stubborn, but her just _telling me_  would have fixed all of this--I would have come running back, and I would have fixed it all then, and then we'd both be in that house raising him. Instead, I'm the fucking stranger that showed up on his mother's front porch," I snapped, feeling my body shaking with animosity. 

 

"And what was there to fix, Jake? What the fuck happened?" she retorted and I snapped my head away from her, swinging out of the recliner and onto my feet as I moved to the kitchen. I heard her move, marching after me as her thick leather boots pounded on the wooden floors. "No, you've run from this, and I haven't bothered you once during this exodus. I've let you sulk and avoid New York for three years, but you owe me an explanation. What fucking happened, Jake?" 

 

I splayed my hands on either side of the sink, staring down at the drain as frustration clashed with longing clashed with stubbornness clashed with anger. A war was waging in my head, and all I wanted was some fucking peace for the first time in years, and holding it all in wasn't the best way to achieve that peace. I turned, meeting Rosa's dark gaze, and remembering the last time I saw her. I think she was wearing the same jacket. 

 

"Fine. I'll tell you."

* * *

**author's note /** stay tuned for the next chapter where i'm going to write a blast from the past to explain what happened. it's all about to make sense ahahaha - d.


	6. Remind Me to Forget

_Four Years Ago_

I was dreaming. I'm not sure what I was dreaming about, but I was sure I was dreaming until I realized the blaring noise in the background wasn't a crowd of people cheering my name as I rode through New York on a helicopter, but an alarm clock. I groaned, clutching the warm body beside me closer, nestling my face further into a mane of hair, refusing to move. 

 

"Jake," Amy groaned, half asleep, "the alarm is on your side."

 

"Really? It doesn't sound like it," I growled, reluctantly stretching my arm back to slam my hand on the alarm over and over again until the sound silenced. Instead of rolling out of bed, I stayed there with my arm draped across my eyes, wanting to desperately sleep for another day longer. I felt the mattress shift, peering under my arm to watch Amy strip her clothes off in preparation for her morning shower. She turned, and I smiled sleepily, feeling like I was caught with my hand in the cookie jar. 

 

"Are you just going to lay there?" she prodded, a suggestive smile curling at her lips. 

 

"Title of your sex tape," I countered, causing her to roll her eyes. She began to turn away and I quickly rolled out of bed, throwing my shirt to the ground as I chased her into the bathroom, the sound of our laughter echoing off the walls until it was all I could hear. 

 

"We went five minutes over our shower time," Amy reported, glancing at the oven clock as she poured us both a cup of coffee. We were freshly showered, dried, and dressed, and I was currently fixed on how hot my fiance was with a neat bun and her all-black uniform.  

 

"Ten," I rejected, smirking over at her as I slipped on my underarm holster over my button down. "We'll just grab a donut out of the break room," I shrugged, moving to kiss her cheek as I took the mug of coffee that really consisted of ninety percent creamer. It was like drinking a watered down milkshake.  

 

"Have you heard back from Brooklyn P.I.?" she whispered into her coffee, and I carefully glanced over at her as I set my cup down to put on my NYPD jacket. With Amy and I settling down, I had looked towards jobs that could pay to give us a little more financial freedom and to pay off some of my debt from buying a car straight out of the academy. I wasn't really looking, though; I just wanted to know all my options. 

 

"No," I said briefly, slipping my badge over my neck and fixing it in front of my chest. I noticed as she looked down, attempting to hide her relief. Sighing, I moved around the kitchen island, curling an arm around Amy's waist. "I interviewed with them a month ago and I haven't heard back from them in the slightest. It's been radio silence, and it's going to stay that way, and we're both going to stay at the Nine-Nine and annoy each other until you leave me for Vin Diesel," I grinned, relieved when she smiled back. 

 

"Dwayne Johnson, actually," she corrected, resting her free hand on my chest. 

 

"It changed?"

 

"Yeah... Something about the tattoos... and the bald head," she mumbled thoughtfully, staring off into the distance before smirking cheekily up at me. 

 

"I'm not watching Fast and Furious with you ever again," I muttered, kissing her quickly before I moved to drain the rest of my coffee. "Alright, let's go, you took so long in the shower, I'm not trying to be late for work," I called as I grabbed my keys, moving back towards the door as I heard her scrambled for her jacket and phone. "Maybe you'll finally start to consider 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner!"

 

"Jacob Peralta!" she gasped, moving into the foyer with a stricken expression. "Never speak that name in this household again," she breathed, eye narrowing at me in a cool glare as we stood there in brief, still silence, and then erupted in laughter. She moved past me as I opened the front door for her, pausing to grip my forearm as she leaned in so close her nose brushed mine. "And, by the way, the ten minutes were worth it."

 

* * *

 

I was riding a high throughout the first half of the day, and I couldn't remember the last time I had been so content doing paperwork. Amy had been gone most of the day between managing her uniformed offices and helping Charles investigate a few incidents with robbed ATM's throughout the precinct, and while I missed not being able to shoot rubber bands at her or slip her stupid notes on her desk downstairs, it meant I was rolling through files at a rapid pace. I opened my top drawer, looking for a paperclip when I noticed a matte business card staring up at me, which read in bold black letters: BROOKLYN PI. I lifted it up, running my thumb over the lifted font, training my gaze towards the phone at my desk as I sat there in silence, weighing my next actions. 

 

"Fuck it." Glancing around the bullpen, I lifted the phone and quickly dialed the number printed beneath the title, leaning back in my seat as it rang. 

 

"This is Detective Lion with Brooklyn PI," a strong, familiar voice thundered from the other end of the call. Lion was a burly man, something out of a western movie, with a thick and dark mustache that I was jealous of and that Amy dreamed I could grow. "How may I assist you?"

 

"Hey, Lion, it's Peralta from the Nine-Nine. I had an interview with you about a month ago, and I was just wondering why I never heard back from you guys," I replied into the receiver, turning to have a view of the elevator, anxious to see if Charles or Amy would be returning soon. "I don't mean to sound impatient, I'm sure you have a lot going on, it's just—"

 

"You rejected the offer, Jake," Lion cut through, ceasing my statement with his low tone.

 

"I... Excuse me, sir, did you just say I rejected your offer?" I scoffed, squinting in confusion. "I never received one; I've checked my emails three times a day, checked my voicemail on my phone, and I've even sorted through the mail. I've gotten nothing, and, you know that's fine, I just wanted to know what you expected—"

 

"We offered you the job, Jake. We called you, and your wife answered, and told us she'd pass the message on to you. The next day, you emailed us with the rejection," Lion spoke clearly, his voice mellow, and I knew he wasn't lying. Why would he? He had no reason to lie, but I knew someone who did. 

 

I didn't have a wife. 

 

"Look, I can forward you the email if you'd like, Peralta," he offered, and I sat there, completely unresponsive as I stared at the elevator, almost wanting it to open so I could confront the culprit. 

 

"That would be great, thank you." I didn't wait for his response, only turned to hang the phone up, shaking my mouse to wake the computer screen back on. I immediately opened my email, refreshing the page repeatedly until I finally received a new message. 

 

* * *

From: [detryanlion](mailto:detryanlion@bpi.org)

To: [jperalta](mailto:jperalta@nypd.org)

Subject: Re: Job Offer

 

Peralta, here's the email. Sorry for the misunderstanding; without your acceptance, we gave your position to another candidate. Next time a position opens, you'll hear from us. We'd love to have you on the team.

 

* * *

 

Detective Lion,

 

I am grateful for the job offer, and I appreciate you allowing me the time to speak with you about this opportunity, but I don't think I'm quite ready to leave the NYPD. Working with Brooklyn P.I. offers benefits that are, admittedly, impressive, but I can't bring myself to leave the Nine-Nine. 

 

Thank you again and I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may cause. 

 

**Jacob Peralta**

Detective for the NYPD's 99th Precinct

* * *

 

I stared at that screen until it faded black from the inactivity, unable to comprehend the idea that Amy would not only go behind my back to reject a job offer, but to walk around and keep it from me while asking about it as if by taking the interview, I was betraying her. When I applied for the job, it made for a stale night and a lot of cold shoulders from her, and it wasn't because we wouldn't be working in the same building, but because I would be gone a lot. I would be gone on investigation that involved long, cold cases and extremely dangerous individuals, either of which could mean I'm gone for long periods at a time, undercover, or both. 

 

We were in our thirties, and I understood that she no longer wanted to wait for certain milestones, such as having kids. Her worse fear was becoming the wife of Donnie Darko, forced to raise kids alone while her husband was off risking his life, and not being able to see her months at a time. Quite honestly, I don't think I wanted that either, but that was my decision to make. I wasn't an angry guy; I think I have a pretty wide range of emotions, but anger does not come easily, but all I could feel was betrayal and hurt concocting together into a fit of rage that built deep in my chest. I shoved the business card back into my drawer, slamming it shut before I grabbed my jacket. 

 

"Whoa, whoa, where are you going, Peralta?" Terry looked up from his desk, furrowing his expression towards me as I marched towards the elevator, basically punching the button until it finally opened. 

 

"I'm going home."

 

* * *

 

In a classic angry male fashion, I immediately started drinking as I returned home, not knowing what to do with the emotions I was doing my best to suppress. Amy and I didn't argue and we sure as hell didn't lie to each other, and while I was simultaneously hoping there would be a reasonable explanation for her actions. I paced the length of the house; up the stairs, around every bedroom and bathroom, back down the stairs, outside to the shed, back into the house. 

 

As I stepped back inside, an amber glass bottle dangling from my hand, I noticed my phone vibrating on the island. I ambled over to it, staring down at the call notification with blatant disinterest, even as Amy's name flashed up at me. Before the call could drop, I answered it, putting it on speaker instead of wasting the energy to lift it to my ear. 

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Where are you, Jake?" Her tone was sharp, biting through the speaker, and I could feel her frustration. How do you like it, Amy? Instead of responding, I put the beer to my lips, tipping it back and letting its content draining down my throat until it was empty. 

 

"I'm home," I said, the scent of ale heavy on my breath as I moved to discard the bottle into a trashcan filled with the rest of the six pack I had in the fridge. Grabbing my phone, I moved up the stairs toward our bedroom. 

 

"Why are you home, Jake? How am I going to get home?" 

 

I scratched my brow, closing my eyes. I guess I didn't mean to leave her stranded at the station, but she could catch a ride home with Boyle, it's not like he lived very far away, or— No. This was warranted. "I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out, Amy, you're rather gifted at figuring out solutions to your problems," I slurred, and I'm sure she could tell my state of mind because she went radio silent. Faintly, I could begin to hear her breathing from the other end of the phone, the anxiety building in her slowly. 

 

"Are you drunk?" she said quietly, and I only began to giggle at the question. What a dumb fucking question. 

 

"Yeah," I deadpanned. I didn’t know what to really say to her, and for the first time in our relationship, I found myself not wanting to communicate with her on any level, but I owed it to myself to confront her about what had happened. 

 

“I’m coming home—“ 

 

“You’re a liar.”

 

Our voices overplayed one another’s, clashing together in a cacophony of syllables that was left with more silence from both ends. 

 

“I found out, Amy,” I said quickly, wanting the chance to talk before she could think of an excuse to counter. “I know you answered the call from Brooklyn PI, I know you got into my email, and I know you sent that rejection piece. When would I ever use an email signature?” 

 

“You said it yourself that you weren’t serious about the opportunity, so why does it matter that I sent the rejection?”

 

“Because that wasn’t your choice to make!” And as my voice echoed back into my ears, I found myself not able to recognize the harsh bite to them and the raised vocals. I was shouting. “You’re supposed to talk to me, support me, and make decisions alongside me—not behind my fucking back.”

 

“I could see you the day you came back from that interview; the idea of being some big detective was so amazing for you. Finally, the brilliant Jake Peralta could work on cases that all his favorite movies were based on. Newsflash Jake, you live in reality, not in the world of Die Hard!” And now she was shouting too. “You call me the liar, but you would have accepted the job offer if you’d gotten to the email before I had.” 

 

“And so what if I had? We could have been posted up in a pad in central park with the money they were offering me. I’m a detective, a good one, and I’m not afraid to admit that I could do better than the NYPD. I love the Nine-Nine, but how could you expect me to stay in one place when you didn’t?” I demanded, white knuckling the phone in my hand so hard I was beginning to think I might break it. 

 

“I became a sergeant and moved down by one floor; I didn’t try and uproot our lives completely, or pick a job that means being gone all the time, or an increased risk of being in danger."

 

"We're detectives. Did you forget that? Being together didn't change that," I breathed, exasperated with this dimwitted discussion. "I'm going to be in danger, I'm having to do things that aren't convenient for either of us, it doesn't give you the right to choose for me."

 

I waited for her to immediately counter, to say something in response so this argument could continue for the next hour, but an unexpected strand of silence stretched onto between us both, and even with the distance between us, I could feel something in the air thicken. 

 

"Then maybe something has to change."

 

There it was. 

 

"Look, I gotta go. You know, some of us have work that needs to be done," she said coolly before the call was ended, and I stood there in a pit of shock and anxiety and frustration. Something has to change. What the fuck did that mean? Was she insinuated that we had to reconsider our relationship? That one of us should quit our jobs? Both? My hand shook as I dropped my phone back onto the counter, and I had to sit down, and I stayed there until my head stopped spinning. 

 

And that was the last time I spoke to Amy before I left.

 

That doesn't seem like a good reason to leave your almost-wife.

 

You're right, it wasn't, but while it was the last time I spoke to Amy, it wasn't the last time I saw her. 

 

I was gulping water after an hour of sitting on the sofa, trying to puzzle together the things said between Amy and me while simultaneously sobering up enough to have a clear head. She was supposed to have been home by now, and I was already prepared to apologize and kiss her ass until I was blue in the face. I'd make the bed until you could bounce quarters off the sheets, I'd clean and polish the wooden floors until the house smelled like Pinesol, I'd go out and collect every newspaper from here to the Mississippi just so she'd never had a shortage of crosswords to do. I know what she did wasn't correct, and a huge invasion of privacy, but it wasn't worth ending everything over. There are plenty of times where she rolled over and conceded in order to keep me happy, and we'd be able to talk about it in a few days when tensions calmed down. 

 

The important thing was that I loved her, and I that meant loving her even when I didn't like her. 

 

I was going through the list of numbers to call when I finally came to my senses and called the one person who would actually pick up. 

 

"Jake, hey, what's up?" Gina's laid back tone drawled out of the speaker, and it was easy to imagine her lounging somewhere with her feet up. 

 

"Gina, hey, do you know where Amy is?" There was no way in the fucking world Amy and I were fighting and Gina didn't know about it. It was her superpower: knowing everybody's business. 

 

"She went to Shaw's with Terry and Boyle," she sighed, and I could hear her moving. "So are you going to tell me what's going on? Or am I going to have to ask Fifth Shot Amy?" 

 

"Are you at the bar? Don't let her get to that sixth shot, Gina—I'm on my way!" I could hear Gina start to speak, but I was already ending the call as I ran to grab my keys, scrambling out of the house to jump in my car. I sped to the bar in proper New York fashion: screaming, cursing, and swerving through lanes of traffic until I was finally able to park a block away. 

 

My nerves were going haywire as I walked up the avenue, hands shoved in my pockets to fight the cold breeze that was charging through the city. I knew Amy wasn't going to be so willing to see me, especially if she was five shots in, but I'd let her yell and scream and punch my chest if that's what she wanted. It would be worth it as long as she didn't go to sleep mad at me. I pace quickened as Shaw's neon sign swung in the distance, taking a steady breath as I came to stand beneath it. Peering through the window, I could make out the very edge of Amy's uniform from where she sat at the bar. Nodding to my own reflection, I swung the door open, but I barely took a step in, completely slapped in the face by what I saw. 

 

Amy leaning on the bar with her mouth on another guy: _Teddy_. 

* * *

  
**author's note /** so now y'all know. this chapter was a bit more difficult for me; i guess listening to a bunch of slow love songs doesn't make for the best environment to write the angst, but i did so to the best of my ability, and i hope y'all like it. and to those of you in university going back for the first time tomorrow: good luck! -d. 

 

 


	7. The Mess I Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: I just noticed that in some of the recent flashbacks, I've used four years instead of three. it's mainly because i've been trying to say like "this was a scene before jake left" but in the last chapter, it should have said three years. same with the one before that. anyways, i'll write more at the end of the chapter. enjoy!

_Present Day_

 

"And then I left."

 

We sat in complete silence, and while a part of me is glad I was able to explain everything to Rosa, who is notorious for having little to say, but another part was honestly craving a reaction. Instead, she sat there, her elbows resting atop her knees as she stared between her legs, down at the wooden floors. My leg shook as I began to chew on my thumbnail, expectantly watching Rosa until she lifted her head and met his gaze with an impassive expression. 

 

"You're an idiot."

 

I was momentarily stunned into further silence, my mouth hanging open in shock as she grunted under her breath and stood up in anger. However, the anger didn't seem directed towards me; she paced beside the coffee table while mumbling to herself. 

 

"You are so impulsive, and you refuse to stop being a child for even a second to handle thing like someone who is in their thirties," she bit out, stabbing a finger at me from across the room to illustrate her harsh words. "I was there at the bar that night when Teddy kissed Amy."

 

I narrowed my eyes, tilting my head slightly as she spoke. So... Rosa was there when she watched my ex-future-wife kiss Teddy and she did nothing? And she didn't tell me? I ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth, staring back at Rosa as she looked at me expectantly. Was I... supposed to know something? 

 

"So...?"

 

"Jake, I've known you since the Academy, and you don't think I would have told you if I saw Amy kissing another guy at a bar? Jake, she didn't kiss Teddy; Teddy kissed her, and then she broke his nose." She continued to pace again, running a hand through her thick dark curls. "I mean, seriously Jake, did you even see them?"

 

"I saw it!" I snapped, jaw clenched as my body stiffened. "You think I'd throw my life down the drain on a _hunch_? She had been drinking and she was mad at me—"

 

" _She was four months pregnant_!" Rosa's words cut through the air like an icy blade, effectively stunning me into silence as I slumped back into my recliner, eyes dropping to my boots. "She hadn't been drinking, but she _was_  mad at you, and her and Teddy were talking. Just talking. He forced himself onto her and she finally got him off of her," she mumbled, glancing down. She was very clearly uncomfortable, and it made my whole body inflame anew. _I'll kill him._  "And then she slammed his head down into the bar," she added with a small smirk, dark brows arched suggestively. 

 

"That's my girl." The words tumbled out of my mouth like an instinct, a smug grin tugging at the corner of my lips until a sudden realization had my body sinking back into dark grey cushions. "I ruined my relationship for no fucking reason," I mumbled under my breath, hands raising to grip my hair in two fierce fistfuls. "Oh my God, Rosa— What the fuck do I do?" I breathed, and I felt my heartbeat in my fingertips as the air began to thin. 

 

I jumped up, gasping for breath as I began to pace up and down the living room, pushing my hair in all different directions as sweat began to pore down my face. "I left my girlfriend to raise our son by herself, I left my girlfriend to deal with being sexually assaulted by herself," I choked out, my voice cracking as my eyes became clouded with tears. I dug the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to hold my emotions in, even as the bubbled over, completely consuming me as I felt my knees grow weak. 

 

As I began to sink, I felt two lithe arms wrap around me and pull me up with ease. Rosa's cold hands gripped my wrists and pulled them from my eyes, leaving my tears to run down my face with reckless abandon, my teeth biting my lower lip to keep my sobs from wracking my body. "You fucked up," she stated quietly, holding me captive with her gaze. "But no matter what you're going to get out of it, you owe it to Amy to apologize, and you owe it to Mateo to be in his life. Instead of getting back something in the past, you need to work on building something new with them _now_."

 

Her words were like throwing ice on a sleeping man—it woke me up, and I was nodding frantically as I wiped the moisture from my face, looking around the room. "Okay, okay, okay, cool, cool, cool," I muttered as I brushed my hands over my chest methodically. "Okay, so, I'm going to New York. I'm going to text the Captain that it's an emergency, and hope he doesn't fire me, and then we're gonna go. Okay?" I turned my head back to her, and she gave me a small smirk, folding her arms across her chest. 

 

"Alright."

 

* * *

 

Maybe I should have gone straight to Amy's home, but as I drove across the George Washington Bridge, my mind naturally parked itself in front of the first place I wanted to go. As I stepped out of the car, I looked up at the towering hospital, glancing down at the forgotten pack of cigarettes in the door. _No distractions_. I shut the door, ignoring the craving for any amount of substance that could take the edge off the last few hours—the last few _years_. 

 

I was neatly pressing the adhesive sticker onto my shirt as I stepped off the elevator onto Holt's floor, glancing down at the name tag to make sure there were no folds before I lifted my head and immediately stopped, scuffing the linoleum. Mateo sat outside of Holt's room, swinging his legs as he manipulated an action figure, causing it to jump, fly, kick, and punch through the air with matching sound effects that bubbled from his mouth. 

 

Narrowing my eyes, I focused on the action figure, its white tank top and black slacks becoming more and more familiar as I approached. "Hey Mateo," I said softly, earning his attention as he lifted his head, and immediately gave me a wide grin. "Is that... a _Die Hard_  action figure?" I prompted as I sat beside him, leaning my elbows down on my knees so my head slumped to his level. 

 

He nodded, holding it up to me, and I took it in my hands, admiring the attention to detail: the dirt on his shirt, the blood on his hands, the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. "And your mom lets you watch this movie?" I laughed softly, arching a single brow at Mateo who gave me a sly smile back. Shrugging, I handed him his John McClane back. "You know... I'm a lot like John McClane," I drawled, eyeing Mateo from the side as I watched his eyes flutter with interest. 

 

I smirked, nodding to myself. "Yeah, well, one time I was chasing this guy for _blocks_. I just about chased after him the length of New York; I even go to jump from a fire escape into a trash can," I explained, using the action figure to illustrate the reasons why he, a three-year-old, should be impressed. His mouth gaped and his eyes glittered as I continued, "I chased him down into the sewers, hoping the Ninja Turtles would help me out, y'know? Cause here I am doing their job for them," I shrug, grinning as he erupted in giggles. "I'm chasing him through this tunnel and a figure out of the shadows tackles him," I gasp, pinning John McClane down on the bench, embellishing my point. "And you know who it was who caught him?" 

 

The boy shifted, moving to kneel on the bench so he was up to my eye-level, leaning over to grip my shirt in pure excitement. "Who?" he squealed, brown eyes so wide, I could see even the dim fluorescence reflected back at me, causing his eyes to appear almost honey gold. 

 

"Your mom," I whispered under my breath, like a treasured secret as Mateo grinned, his mouth agape as he slumped back down into the bench, a hand flying to press against his forehead theatrically. 

 

"Whoa," he breathed, gazing up at me in awe. "More?" he mumbled as he moved to stand on the bench, wrapping his arms around my neck, earnestly meeting my gaze. He smelled like soap and vending machine Oreos, a collection of crumbs sitting in the corner of his mouth. I wanted to sit there and tell him all the stories I ever dreamed of telling my children; I wanted to tell him how I decided to be a detective, how I got the scar on my hand, how I fell in love with his mom. I opened my mouth, trying to figure out where to begin when we both turned towards the sound of a door opening. 

 

Amy stepped out of Holt's room, looking entirely exhausted, and she jumped as soon as she lifted her head to see me. She didn't look angry, or ready to run, but she did look rather shocked. I gripped underneath Mateo's arms, lifting him from the bench and onto the floor as he ran towards his mom. Amy instant scooped him, placing him on her hip before they both turned to where I sat, fidgeting with the action figure in my hand. 

 

"Hey, Ames," I said softly, and I think that surprised her too. I stood, moving to give Mateo his action figure back, flashing him the same smile he continuously gave to me before I turned to meet Amy's doe eyes, completely wracked by their own unique shade of brown. "I don't really know where to begin and..." I glanced over at Mateo, trailing off before I dragged my gaze back to her, "I know this isn't the time or place to begin anywhere. But if you could find the time, I'd like to talk."

 

She furrowed her brows at me, but I could see her lip twitching up in the slightest of smiles. "I feel like I'm dreaming," she mumbled, narrowing her gaze at me skeptically. Rocking back on my heels, I gave her a toothy grin, desperately hoping she'd give me the light of day so I could apologize. "Tomorrow. My mom is coming to see Mateo; we can get something to eat after work," she said with a polite nod, letting her eyes run up and down my frame. I know she was trying to assume my intentions, seeing as in the last two weeks, we'd run from each other, chased each other, fought, and fucked. 

 

She wasn't the only one confused by it all. 

 

"It's a date."

 

* * *

**author's note /** is this a short chapter? idk but i'm trying to make sure y'all don't get bored reading this, especially cause it's gonna be a lot more fluff coming up as jake builds a new dynamic between amy and mateo. don't worry tho this story is FAR from over lmfao n e ways i hope y'all had a good beginning of the week, and only two more days until a new b99 episode! - d. 


End file.
